


Renegade (Assassin's Creed Syndicate x Reader)

by Arichuloco



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Angst, Drug Dealing, Dysfunctional Family, Friendship/Love, Implied Relationships, Mild Language, Multi, Non-Chronological, Rating May Change, Reader-Insert, Violence, Weird Plot Shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 04:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6551650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arichuloco/pseuds/Arichuloco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are traitors among us."</p><p>Lines blur between friend and foe, and you don't know who to trust anymore. You've been framed for the murder of someone you love, leaving you no choice but to run away from the life you've been reluctantly living. But in order to have retribution you need to make choices that will change who you are.</p><p>You don't follow the Assassin's Creed anymore.<br/>You're a Renegade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> To be honest, I thought that I should make this a Jacob x Reader fanfic, but I realized that it's more focused on the Reader's relationships with other people than just Jacob. There's still going to be some chemistry with the English muffin though ;)
> 
> This is my first long term series, so I'm sorry if there's a lot of plot holes :c  
> Also, a warning that this is not going to follow a linear timeline, so it _might_ be a little confusing. I promise that I'll do my best to make it work though :)
> 
> Please do enjoy!

**London, 1868**

You stood stiffly in front of a board with an enlarged map speckled with dots and pins, eyes following one red string to another. They were clues, evidence, and people linked together. Some strayed from the board, connecting to an article that had to be placed elsewhere from the overflowing mass pinned on the wall. Yet all led to bring down one common enemy of your own and of the Brotherhood. 

Crawford Starrick. 

You stepped closer to your planning board, fingers reaching out delicately to stroke the edge of the man's picture. It brushed against it gently, almost like the soft caress of a lover. Or like the touch of the carefully tempered wrath of a woman craving vengeance.

As if burnt by acid, your fingers recoiled, gaze sharpening like the knives you wanted to throw at the real deal. You almost reached out and crumpled the picture, the need to destroy its representation strong enough to mess up your careful arrangement. It was almost comical how your hatred burned. You'd thought that maybe over the years that you'd worked to get to where you were now, the years you worked away from the Brotherhood, training and hunting alone, that your anger would have softened. But being away gave you time to yourself. Probably too much time. 

You sighed, feeling the tension in your body release with your breath. Looking around, you took in the amount of things you'd collected over the years. Four years to be exact. 

When you first came to this room, you were far more younger. And far more naive. The state of the room was like a reflection of you, building up from an empty case to a mess of experiences over the years in London. It looked nothing like your old home in Crawley living mostly with your neat mother who pressed you to train yourself to become an Assassin. Everything in Crawley was pristine and in its designated spot. As for you, the only thing you could use to defend yourself of the mess of your evidence room was calling it "organized chaos". Your mother would have left immediately, pretending that ever seeing the room never happened. It wouldn't be surprising if she came and tore it apart, but it was evidence and too much of a mess that taking it apart would probably be counterproductive. It was easy to call your evidence room its own booby trap. 

Sometimes you were glad this room had no resemblance to your mother's office, a place that you spent an exponential amount of time in as she sent you on missions that you dreaded. Even if you did miss your mother. She was strict, you recalled. But also loving. She cared for you a lot, and she showed a lot of trust towards you, despite the fact that you were a lazy youth that wasn't much more than an annoying thorn to her side. As for your father, he was barely around, but when he did spend time with you, he seemed to make a great effort to catch up with you. Although other times when he was around, he'd avoid you entirely. It was normal for him to be in the same building as you for days, and you wouldn't even catch as much as a word or glance from him. In retrospect, your parents were awful, and they were great. Both haunted you and added too many burdens on your too young shoulders.

Your mother and father weren't the only people in Crawley that you missed, you remembered. 

There were the Frye twins. Brother and sister. Jacob and Evie. You were raised with them. Your childhood up until you were six, you'd practically lived with them. That was when the twins' grandmother took them in, and your mother became something like a maternal guardian to all three of you. In the daytime the three of you would run around and cause mischief, climbing things and running away from spankings. In those days you were still relatively slower and you did get caught, facing many consequences painful to your arse. Although later on you'd find yourself being the fastest of the trio. It was something you took a lot of pride in even to this day.

Then in the evening the three of you would share a bed and sleep soundly together. It was warm, cozy, and loving. You supposed it wasn't intentional for toddlers to be loving to each other, but in retrospect, that was exactly how it felt. Sometimes you'd hold onto Evie and she to you, and Jacob's pudgy arms would clumsily hold onto you as a makeshift pillow. In the morning you'd somehow be hugging Jacob's leg, and Evie's face would be on the flat of your foot, and her arm would be sprawled over Jacob's neck. It was easy to guess that the outcome of the morning would be filled with arguments over who did what purposely in their sleep. You almost laughed at remembering them. 

Back in those days it was simple and easy. Not at all difficult to miss and reminiscence with nostalgia. Now life was too complicated for a simple laugh. 

You were standing in the middle of a room of red strings and things marked with the promise of blood. The picture of innocence that you painted in your head was now smeared over with the living essence of your enemies. You were not a child anymore. And you couldn't go back. 

Did you want to?

Of course you did. More than anything in the world you wanted to be with the people you loved. 

But the only thing you could do was move forward and hope that with the lives that you took, you could feel a bit of satisfaction. And maybe after all those years spent away, you could finally be free of your burden. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No Fryes yet, unfortunately. But you do get to see some insight on Reader's past, which I hope isn't too boring.  
> Please do tell me if there are errors or typos that really bother you!
> 
> Other than that, please do enjoy this chapter :)

**Crawley, 1864**

There was something funny about the coldness of your mother's office and the ever crackling flame of the fireplace that was placed just a few paces from her desk. As far as you could remember, there was never a moment where you felt warmth in this room. It was tempting to put your hands in your pockets, but later on you learnt to tough it out. Just like many other things in life that you had to deal with.

You flexed your fingers against the handles of your seat, joints stiff from the chill of the room. They ached from the movement. You hated it here, in your mother's office. Not only because it was always cold, but it was also the place of memories that you were never fond of. Memories of you doing things that you were reluctant to carry out, but only managed it because it was what you were expected to do. You supposed that it was only normal to not want to kill people and extract information, but you doubted it was expected of just anyone too.

It was silent in the room save for the calming sound of the crackling fireplace, and your mother's endless scribbling on parchment. Her head was bowed in concentration as she wrote her report on her latest mission, a stray tendril of (h/c) framing the side of her face. You began to tap a finger impatiently against your chair. This was normal: having your mother call you in after a mission while she wrote her reports. It was boring, and frankly you didn't understand why she wanted you to be present while she did something that clearly had nothing to do with you. The most significant part happened after she finished writing, when she would actually talk to you, but it was annoying how she was almost never finished writing by the time you reached her office. You started to think that maybe this was a form of punishment for the mischief you were guaranteed to have been doing with—

"The mission at Croydon was compromised," your mother spoke curtly. Your attention moved instantly towards her, cutting off your previous thoughts. Her voice was velvet soft, but it had a quality to it that demanded attention. Her soft voice made people lean towards her just to hear the interesting things that she said. Whether or not they were lies, your mother's voice wove connections that people were reluctant to cut. It wasn't difficult to think of your mother as a spider that easily trapped people in her endless weaves of web.

Despite that, you admired your mother's voice and how it was the type of voice that made it easy to blend in anywhere. Even if you didn't like the jobs she used it in to her advantage.

"And you are telling this to me because?"

Your mother glanced up at you, her dark eyes piercing into your own. It was intense, like a tiger's focused gaze as it prowled towards its prey, pinning it down to the spot with fear. "This is important, (y/n). I need you to take this seriously."

At least you were familiar enough with the look to act like you weren't affected. You looked away from your mother and sighed. "You should tell George or Ethan, mother. This isn't something I'm qualified to do. I'm still a novice."

"You haven't been doing novice work since you were fifteen, (y/n)," your mother reminded you. As if it was something you needed to remember; your carefree adolescent years taken away and replaced with cold blood and obsessive documents.

"Yes," you shot back. "And I can remember clear as day the joy I had in partaking of it. Or lack thereof."

You didn't look at your mother as she stood up and walked around her chair. Instead, the image of the crackling fireplace burned itself into your corneas. You would rather look at it rather than the walking iceberg you called your mother. It wasn't a completely honest thought. You didn't truly believe that your mother was cold and heartless. Rather, in retrospect, you thought that she cared too much. And you knew she only made you do these things so that you could learn to take care of yourself and the Brotherhood that she lived for.

It was just so hard to remember that. Especially in moments like these.

"You need to know these things, (y/n)," your mother said sternly. "You're going to become an Assassin and you must understand the severity of the situation in hand."

You rolled your eyes and waved a hand dismissively. "Why can't I be one of those Assassins that are just told to do things and that's it?"

"Do you think it's really that simple? If that's all you think about in missions then you're going to get yourself killed out there." In the corner of your eye you saw her crossing her arms. The glare however, was felt more than seen. "How many brothers and sisters do you think came back from this mission?"

You returned your mother a resentful look.

She raised an expectant brow at you. "Hmm? Go on? Take a guess. There were ten of them in total. It was quite a big mission, (y/n). Now, take a guess at how many people came back alive."

You hated this game. The one where your mother got heated enough and began to lecture you. You especially hated the part where she asked questions and made you answer.

You looked away stubbornly and grumbled under your breath. "What? Seven?"

"Four," your mother deadpanned. "Four out of ten came back. And if you don't pay attention to the things I tell you, you'll be one of the six that died in the mission."

Did it ever occur to her that she was being rude to the dead? You shot a look to your mother, but she kept going, brushing off your glare as attitude.

"Look at you. You think that you're on the top of the world, don't you? Do you think that it's easy to 'just go on a mission'? Do you think that someone will always be there to hold your hand and tell you the plan? Sometimes things don't go with the plan!"

Anger and irritation churned up at the bottom of your gut. "Are you quite done yet?" you said through gritted teeth.

She shook her head, (h/c) hair bobbing. "Tell me why you're being so stubborn. Is it because you don't want to be an Assassin?"

"Yes," you snapped. "What gave it away? The fact that I occasionally say that I don't want to be an Assassin, or was it the face I make when I say that I hate going on the missions that you send me on?"

There was something enraging about the way that your mother looked down and shook her head. She let out a breath of a laugh, her shoulders shaking in something that looked like shame, disappointment, and pity. At least that was the way that you saw it, and you hated it. There was nothing shameful about not wanting to be something, and you hated how your mother sometimes made you feel there was something wrong about yourself. Especially when it came to being an Assassin.

"The Templars will come after you, (y/n). If you think that you can have a normal life, then you're just lying to yourself." She leaned forward on the desk, propping her hands against the parchment. Her eyes were harsh, the kind of look someone gave to children who wouldn't stop being irate. You felt small. "They will find you and kill you. That is, if they don't torture information out of you first."

You stood up abruptly, feeling the rage burst from their gates. The chair screeched as you pushed it back, pitched notes to a song filled with the emotions of a long battle. "I didn't ask for this life! I didn't want to be born as an Assassin! I wanted a choice!" Your fists clenched tighter, if that was possible. "I don't want to be like you!"

Whatever sense of motherly warmth was in your mother's eyes was gone now. She leaned back from her position, chin up and gaze composed. Just like that, she was no longer your mother, but Master Assassin Julia (l/n). "It doesn't matter whether or not you want to be like me, (y/n)," she said, tone clipped. "If you want to live, you need to know how to survive. Now sit down, listen, and stop being childish."

You knew then and there that there was no use trying to speak for yourself anymore.

Your bottom fell harshly against the cushions, the seat scratching against the wooden floor. Leaning back and crossing your arms stubbornly, you waited for your mother to start talking about her mission and ask you for your insights. You were well aware that she didn't need you, but she made it a point to include you as much as possible to her Assassin life.

To be honest, if you weren't so miserable at the moment, you'd be warmed by how abnormally sweet the gesture could have been. But you knew it wasn't for the fact that your mother wanted to spend time with you, rather she wanted to train you to be the best possible Assassin in the Brotherhood since Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. If that was even possible.

"...there weren't any holes in our plan," your mother droned on. "We sent someone to perform recon before attempting the mission. We knew exactly where the Templars were supposed to be keeping guard and where the objects we needed to retrieve were." She leaned over a map of the factory in Croydon that the assassins that she sent came back from, empty handed and dwindling in numbers. Her fingers pointed to various places as she reviewed the plan, trying to go over any possible flaws. "I already talked to our returning kin, and it seems to be that they were expected."

"Traitors then," you dropped in. "Moles, eavesdroppers. Possibly someone that is well trusted in the Brotherhood."

"As farfetched as that is, we can't accuse someone that easily."

"It's not farfetched at all. Aren't Assassins supposed to be specially skilled in being nosy?"

Your mother scoffed, but it wasn't condescending. "Nosy is one way to put it, (y/n). But the Brotherhood is based on great trust. It is very dangerous to begin pointing fingers, especially when we have so little numbers as compared to the Templars right now."

You shrugged, arms crossed nonchalantly. "But based on the Croydon failure, I think it would be more important to find out who is the culprit before we lose more numbers. Weren't those Assassin's really skilled?"

A flash of sadness and regret flashed on your mother's face before she averted her eyes from you. "Yes...yes, they were."

Seeing your mother in pain and regret over the loss of her fellow Assassins reminded you all too much of how dangerous the life you were born into was. It also reminded you of how much you didn't want to be involved in it. You wanted to live, and this wasn't living at all.

Something your mother said caught your attention.

"What?" You looked up at her, feeling uneasy.

She sighed and said again, "I said that there's a mission taking place in Mitcham, and I'm going."

Your stomach dropped. "But—"

"I know the risks, (y/n). But you know our issues in number and we have to utilize all our resources effectively."

"It's too close," you said quietly, almost fearfully. Every time you heard your mother was going on a mission it was like cold water washing over you. She always came back, but there was always the chance that she wouldn't. "It's too close to Croydon and London, not to mention that it's right in between...mother, what if there's another ambush? There'll probably be more Templars there, not to mention that you'll probably be expected because of that last mission."

She sighed and shook her head covering her face with her hands and leaning against the desk on her elbows. She looked so tired. "We have to take that risk, (y/n). There is a possibility that they wouldn't expect us to come because of that same failed mission."

"Or they'll be expecting you because they know that they still have something that you need."

Your mother looked up at you, a weary smile on her face.  You felt something ache at noticing how much more prominent her wrinkles were, and how the smile was almost wistful. You knew exactly why that latter aspect was there, and you reluctantly surrendered to it. "You're very clever, (y/n). Your arguments are quite sensible, but that doesn't change the fact that this mission needs to be done in urgency."

You furrowed your brows. Of course. You knew that too, but there was always that underlying fear. "Are you _one hundred percent sure_ that you got your information from a reliable source?"

Your mother chuckled. It was nice to hear her laugh, especially with her captivating voice. "I got it from your uncle, my sweet daughter. It's alright."

You still frowned at her, not fully convinced that she was completely safe. "And his sources—"

"Your uncle and father were both there in Croydon, (y/n). The information they have is accurate."

You nodded, looking back at the fireplace. The flames had begun to die, parts of the firewood already crackling softly as embers. There was something numbing about the fact that you almost lost your father and uncle. Who else was in that mission? Was it someone you knew? Were they the others that survived? You really didn't want to dwell on it.

"Fine," you said.

"Are you sure you're satisfied?"

"Mmmhm."

"Really? You don't want to ask again if I've got my sources right?" You could hear the teasing tone in your mother's voice, mimicking your interrogation.

"Yes," you said exasperatedly.

"I was just making sure."

You nodded, still looking away from her.

"But are _you_?"

"Mother," you groaned at her antics. However, it wasn't entirely unwelcome.

She laughed, coming around her desk to pat your shoulder. You looked up at her, expectant that she was going to send you on chores. It was always like that when she sent you away from her office. It was part of why you didn't like going there so much.

"I need to prepare for the mission, so you should go find Evie and Jacob."

As if you didn't do that all the time anyways. But something nagged at you.

"Wait, the mission is _tonight_?"

She nodded, a sobered expression falling on her face. "Yes. But don't worry. I'm going with three others."

"The last one needed ten Assassins," you reminded, fear creeping in again.

"The last mission was spread out. There were three places in Croydon that needed to be taken out at the same time. Tonight it's just one place."

You wanted to argue that maybe there would be more people in this mission, but then you remembered that even if you wanted to tell your mother to bring more people, there was still that issue in numbers.

"Will father be going with you?" you asked hopefully. You knew that your parents were almost an unstoppable duo. If they were together, you knew that there was no way that the mission could go wrong.

Your mother nodded, that simple gesture putting you at ease. "Yes. Your father will be coming. Your uncle, on the other hand, is too injured to execute the mission effectively."

Of course he is, you thought saltily. 

"What about the other two?"

"I thought you said that you were satisfied of asking questions."

You furrowed your brows in frustration. "Excuse me for being concerned," you mumbled.

Your mother smiled at you and tugged you from your seat. "I know you are, sweetheart. But you should have more confidence in your mother. After all, she is a Master Assassin."

You sighed and resisted the urge to roll your eyes as she led you out of her office. "I know," you drawled. "Just—"

"If I don't give you any tasks to fulfil while I'm gone, will you stop pestering me?"

It didn't take much for your mother to convince you, it seemed.

Your mother laughed softly again and shook her head. "Go find Evie and Jacob."

You went off and did as she said, but for some reason you still couldn't brush off that dreadful feeling that something was going to go wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooh, Reader has a bad feeling. You all know what this means.
> 
> Anyways, I hope that wasn't too bad. This chapter was mostly just establishing relationship with the mother, but don't worry because next chapter we get to meet the Frye twins ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you think! I know there's not actually a lot to citique on, but feedback and comments are always appreciated!


End file.
